


Fingertip

by nessundorma345 (wastrelwoods)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:53:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wastrelwoods/pseuds/nessundorma345
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki considers the beginnings of their strange relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fingertip

Chapter Text  
Stark's hands are absolutely fascinating.

The fingers twist. A tendon pops. The fiery liquid splashes against the bottom of the glass, arcing gracefully, harmonizing with the gentle clinking of the ice. Five fingers ghost against the crystalline surface, and his eyes are fixed on them. Daring the grip to loosen, challenging the digits to uncurl and release an explosion of chaos, a spray of jagged ice and glass and liquor against the tile. Daring him to break the spell. 

A thin silver bracelet clings to each of his wrists, contrasting...well, starkly with the browned skin. A tiny white scar runs along the pad of his thumb, and Loki wants to trace it with his lips, with his tongue, wants to taste the sweat and oil beading on the knuckle. He smiles, vaguely aware of the voice echoing in the background. He would stop that mouth if it gave him more time to study these hands.

And study them he does, greedily pursuing each moment he can catch the man outside that blasted suit. Not that the suit bothers him unduly, it's those by-the-nine gloves. Still, after a number of battles, he begins to appreciate even these. The curvature of the metal, the delicate joints, the way the undermost layer surely clings to the skin. Fascinating.

Once - perhaps more than once - the gauntlet crashes against him, leaves a bruise like love against his cheekbone. Long after the battle, Loki stands before a mirror, tracing the discolored mark over and over, feeling the hand on his face through layers of metal and shields of ice, and he smiles wider.

And then, when he is in the cell and Stark knocks against the glass, he has to swallow to keep from screeching like a child with a birthday gift. He props himself against the concrete wall, knees drawn up to his chest, and watches Stark saunter in. No, his gaze is still fixed on those hands, curled loosely at his sides, swinging as he marches over the threshold. 

There are threats exchanged. A thick finger runs along his lips, skimming that ridiculous beard. Loki grins and licks his lips. Other scars dot the surface, each imperfection a new discovery, an untold story. He marks each one as his, irrevocably his. Stark is staring at him intently, a question in his eyes. A laugh bubbles from the depths of Loki's throat as he runs a callused hand through his hair. The motion makes the breath nearly catch in his throat. 

"-what were you doing with the casket, though? I mean, it's shiny and all, but beyond that completely useless. Fury's beginning to think you see this whole thing as an elaborate joke. Personally, I agree. I mean there's no spite or..." he trails off.

The knuckle bends. Five fingers curl absentmindedly at his sides. Brown and oil and sweat and endless fascinating scars. Perhaps these hands are warm. Loki shivers with unexpected pleasure at the thought, smile growing. He looks up, meets those dark eyes. 

"Your hands are fascinating." he murmurs, and Stark smiles, too.

There are times after that when the hands trace secret paths along his face, his back, his side, rough and warm and utterly exquisite. Other places, too. Each touch sets Loki on fire, every fingertip-press to his skin so unbearable that he cannot live without it. His hands are adept, feather-light at moments and possessive at others. He has lost count of the moments he has spent studying these hands, tracing each scar he has labeled his, tasting the motor oil and sweat and something unexpected like bourbon. Sometimes he simply cradles a hand between his own, caressing and feeling and completely fascinated.

And then there are the other times, the times when appearances must be kept up. Blue light shoots from his palm, and Loki smells smoke, tastes blood as it runs down his face. To him it tastes like bourbon, like sweat and oil and iron. Punches are thrown, but more than once he simply catches the metal-bound wrist between his own, holding it as he does in their other moments. He knows Stark smiles behind his metal mask, and he allows his tongue to snake out and taste the metal of the gauntlet as well as the blood still trickling down.

He taunts merely in order to see the knuckles whiten, to see the hands clench into fists and feel the bruise on his cheek. He seduces to feel the pads trace along his spine, to feel them clench into his back as he makes Stark scream. He stays awake and holds a hand in his own late into the night, and he wants, so he makes his. He is fascinated. Obsessed. Intoxicated. What fascinates Loki, he possesses. And Stark, what can he do to say otherwise? What can he do but burn?


End file.
